sonnet #1.

you bleed pretty pink

with flowers in your blood

your words drip as stained ink

that bloom of flower buds

such as sweet honey,

you slip down my tongue

you whisper words of money

as my heart strings you strung

but you do not stay

you leave avec amour

good things often go away

with delusions of grandeur

but my heart lies beaten,

waiting for another for it to sweeten.